


Amatus, Ara Vhen'an

by SometimesSober (EmilyEverAfter)



Series: Amatus, Ara Vhen'an [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Canon Gay Relationship, Coming Out, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Gay Sex, Hallas - Freeform, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Masturbation, My First Smut, Nugs, Plot Twists, Pro-Mage, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Shameless Smut, Smut, Some Plot, Threesome - M/M/M, ambiguous dalish sexuality conventions
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-02
Updated: 2016-04-25
Packaged: 2018-05-04 12:09:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 16,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5333603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmilyEverAfter/pseuds/SometimesSober
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A downside of being Dalish is the lack of a united culture. Unlike others, Clan Lavellan had strict views on what constituted as an "appropriate" bonding between two elvhen souls. As a result, Inarleth Lavellan has suppressed his "unacceptable" desires for the entirety of his existence. For years, he rejected the customs of his own people, praying to the Maker to render him human--to render him free. Even after he emerged from The Breach a new man, even after meeting and falling in love with Dorian Pavus, he did not confront his true identity until a certain Qunari beat it out of him--quite literally.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I

           

* * *

 

**“Are you cold?”**

            Three words sprung suddenly from the shadows and chilled Inarleth Lavellan more than the brisk Hinterlands breeze piercing the walls of his tent ever could.

“ _Fenedhis! Josa’dinas!”_ He jolted upright in his bedroll, reaching for his bow as instinctively as elvhen threats rolled off his tongue. Equally as immediate was the settling of his regret as he realized he spoke not to an intruder, but to a comrade.

          “My!” The voice exclaimed in return, “no need to be so hasty! It’s only the wicked Tevinter mage, no doubt here to slaughter you while you sleep.”

           Dorian spoke in jest—his heritage having stirred quite the commotion from the moment of his arrival mere weeks prior—but, in truth, Inarleth would have found it more comforting to experience betrayal and blood magic by Dorian’s staff than the concern he voiced. The elf sighed,

“I— _No_ , I’m not cold. Was that all?”

      Though his eyes were slowly regaining their focus, the Dalish man could only make out the silhouette of the mage whose head was peeking in at him through his tent flap. Moonlight, too, peered in from this opening, making Inarleth’s chest glimmer bare, pale, and visible. This was opposite of Dorian, whose exotic complexion and black locks blended into the pitch darkness almost too well, creating an aesthetic which only complemented the stygian character he portrayed to the amusement of himself and to the ill-ease of others. Inarleth squinted in his direction, but never did progress beyond the sight of that camouflaged silhouette.

           “Well, I’d have to respectfully disagree, actually, because if that response was _anything_ , it certainly _was_ cold.”  
          

     Inarleth choked back the urge to apologize, held his lips tight and taut to prevent a smile, to prevent _any_ expression—why was that suddenly so hard?!—to prevent anything but a blink and a blank stare in the wake of the ‘Vint’s blunt humour. He only barely succeeded, and would have likely failed had Dorian not broken the silence when he did.  
  
           “Yes, I suppose that was all, Inquisitor, however, if I may insist, I asked because we have an extra blanket—a quilt, actually! Something an older refugee gave to our soldiers. A trinket in return for their saving of her son, or a story of the sort—heroic and inspiring, I’m sure.”

He was rambling.

           “My point is that yours is the furthest bed from the fire, and the men thought it fitting to pass the token onto you. I do believe they’re still inspired by your little speech, and, unless you Dalish folk normally sleep like _that_ , I’d say they were right to offer it.”

     Inarleth became acutely aware of his living conditions at that moment. He could feel a tint rise from the tips of his bare toes to the tip of his slightly hooked nose, embarrassingly visible underneath the transparently-sheer white sheets that were his only coverings. He lay on a bedroll too thin to truly protect him from the Ferelden dirt and grass beneath his back, even with a mostly-empty bottle of brandy wedged underneath it. The sound of buzzing suddenly cut through the night the moment he acknowledged the flies hovering around the meat-juice-soiled bowl near his pillow that once held his second helping of ram stew. He had wolfed it down in the dark, leaving yellowy stains on the fabric of his underthings, and now he was making a vain effort to hide them—as well as his bare nipples—with those same sheer sheets. All because _Dorian_ was watching.  
           “I—Wait, what was that about the Dalish?! I mean—no! This is…It’s just…”  
           “Right, right,” Dorian drawled facetiously, grin made apparent just by his tone of voice. “You’ll take the quilt, then. Good night, Inquisitor.”

           The flaps at the entrance way were ruffled by the gust made as a blanket flew through the shadows and struck the disgruntled elf directly in the face, dispersing the insects that once dined on his discarded dishes. By the time Inarleth took the quilt from his face, the mage was gone.  
           “ _Lin'thanelan felasil…”_ He muttered, mortified and angry. The bowl at his bedside had been infested clean.

\---

  
           Months earlier, the inquisitor had been much colder. Being near-buried in an avalanche and wading, in nothing but beige pajamas, through mounds of snow will do that to a man. The majority of his shivering, however, came from grief and shame.

            Haven was lost. Haven was lost, and it was all his fault.  
            He fell asleep feeling frozen and awoke to a feverish heat hovering over him. His eyes sprung open to meet a mage’s hand, one which he equated with a certain _magister’s_ hand, and he reacted by giving it a violent grasp.

       “ _You_ ,” he hissed, eyes still closed, “I…I don’t know how you found me again…I—I don’t…Just, _please_ …these people…don’t hurt…take me instead…”  
             

        Song welled up around him. It spoke something about…a dawn…  
  
        Compared to Inarleth’s heartbeat, it was painfully slow.  
    
      “ _Kaffas_! A pointer, if I may, Ser Herald? Don’t grab the hand preoccupied with spewing fire!” His “magister” assailant cried. The man was of Tevinter, yes, but Inarleth had failed to notice his lack of a dragon companion. He was not Corypheus. The dalish man, sprawled stiff on a makeshift stretcher, began to writhe and whimper in pain,  
             
           “These people…This music...no…no, _please…no…”_

      It was the dashing mage—the one who had emphasized his _non-_ magister status, the one, who, when Inarleth had met him, had brandished both his fade-bending powers as well as the breadth of his charisma by fending off the demons within the Redcliffe chantry. There he had stood, by his lonesome, before the Herald’s forces or their newly befriended Felix had even arrived. He shifted his staff like it was but a prop—something he used only to orient himself as he danced an effortless, dazzling, routine that made the magical by-product pale in comparison. Also, as Inarleth could not help but note, his mustache was glorious.  
  
Why was it that facial hair, of all things, was the one that never failed to seduce him?!

        Worse was the fact that the two had quite literally traveled through time together.  In that hysteria, Dorian had told him,  
        “Don’t worry, I’m here. I’ll protect you.”

      After that encounter, the future inquisitor felt as uneasy having Dorian kneeling at his side as he would have with the ancient enemy himself. His pulse pounding, the mage tending to him spoke out over the chorus of voices as the melody concluded,  
             
    “Serah Lavellan? It’s alright. Be still. The regular healers must have been trained by baboons so I’m only making sure the frostbite— _Shhhh, now, now, hush--_ It's only me. It's Dorian _."  
_

     Inarleth was _anything_ but still. Dorian's cooing was all for naught.   

     "Oh, for the love of--! He won’t stop thrashing! I need more of that tranquilizing drought over here!”   Inarleth tightened his grip on the hand he already held and turned his face away from the other.  
            “ _Na’dianas..._ _Telas--“  
_           

     Something was pressed against Inarleth’s tongue, another thing was brought to his lips, and the last thing he heard before he faded out of consciousness once more was Dorian’s soothing voice whispering directly into his pointed ear.

                                                            ---

               Despite the fact that time had passed since then, despite all the new events that had muddled his memory—Allying freely with Fiona’s magi population, informing the world of the impending dangers, finding Skyhold…--Inarleth remained sharp and certain about that night. He was steadfast and sure that Dorian had misconstrued his struggling against an imagined Corypheus as mistrust for a man of the Imperium. Too ashamed of his display of vulnerability, Inarleth could not bring himself to rectify the misunderstanding. It was no loss, he thought, for he and his new, loudly-dressing companion, to avoid bonding. After all, he was equally sure that nothing good could arise from the two interacting on a _more_ frequent basis. No good could come from frequent gazing into those brown eyes that paired so well with that dark skin which paired so well with that dark hair which was present also on that upper lip…No. This way, nobody would ever see underneath his solid defense of a blank character.  
            Or so he thought.  
            In reality, it was before noon had reared its head that he was approached by a potential infiltrator.  
            “So, I’ve seen the way you look at him.”  
           

    The under-layer of his character must have been more visible than the elf had thought, for it was none other than the one-eyed warrior who stood behind him, about to shatter everything.

         


	2. II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inarleth is surprised by a sudden confrontation with The Iron Bull. Being distracted for the remainder of the day proves to have deadly consequences...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your kudos on the first chapter, everyone! The formatting was messed up due to a direct copy-and-paste from MS Word. I'll be writing the chapters directly in my web browser now to avoid further formatting errors. I'll be updating once a week! 
> 
> If you want to see what Inarleth looks like, look no further than here: http://imgur.com/a/QulAM

A small gathering of stones sat atop the pebbles of the river's shallow stream. Barely, just barely, their tops protruded out of the reach of the water that rushed onward,  glimmering in the morning sun. It  wasn't the best place to take a bath, the deepest point of the body hardly providing enough water to wet Inarleth's calves, but a Dalish-reared elf was nothing if not resourceful. He knew which barks became foamy when met with friction, which flora produced the most pleasing scents when punctured in certain areas, and, of course, how to make due with that which nature presented him. He was about to do just that--to strip in the seclusion of the trees and bushes surrounding the perimeter of camp and wash himself as the sun climbed the horizon. He'd never needed much sleep, and this way, he could tend to those of his needs he did care to indulge, cupping small palmfulls of water without any urgency, before any of his companions had done so much as finished dreaming.  
  
He hadn't been expecting Bull to have other ideas.  
  
  
Thankfully, he'd only finished cleansing his face, only his shirt having been removed, when the qunari came up behind him.  
  
The fringe of his hair sopping as he jolted up from his knees and brought his head up from the river, he sighed and gave himself a docile shake, attempting to dry his locks so that stray drops of water did not venture into his eyes and ruin the angered stare he was shooting Bull's way.  
  
"Really?" He growled, "I'm one man trying to close some Maker-forsaken holes in the sky using some strange magic branded into my hand. I can't let my guard down for even a minute, apparently, not because of demons, assassins, or bandits, but because my own crew insists on starting conversations with me when they're out of my line of sight!"  
  
Perhaps he would not come across as so harsh if his voice had some sort of a charm to it. Inarleth did not have a passively-political intonation like Madame Vivienne, nor did his way of speech come accompanied by a distinctive regional dialect like Sera's. He was, all in all, a very unnerving individual to listen to. His tone was deep, harsh, and anglicized, quite to the contrary of the formal, soft and prim articulation that so many had come to expect of the "dainty" and "delicate" elves. Dalish was anything but synonymous with either of those terms.  
  
"Hey, that's a good thing if you ask me. A man who arms himself should never be a man who lets his guard down. I might as well be an assassin, so how would you deal with me? The history books wouldn't reflect fondly on an inquisition that ended with a leader getting caught with his pants down."  
  
"I don't know how good the eye you have left is, but my pants are clearly up and my bow is within an arm's reach." His gaze only left the qunari when he blinked, but even without looking, he was able to grab his quiver and bow by instinct, proving his point.  
  
"Yeah, whatever, all it takes is for another archer to have his at the ready and then, boom, you have an arrow between your _eyes_." Bull emphasized his pluralization of the latter word, acknowledging the insult Inarleth had intended toward the wounded socket he hid with his eye patch. "Anyways, my other senses do me well enough to know that you come down here with your pants down often enough. They've also given me a good idea what _inspires_ you, if you catch my drift. That's what I came here to talk about, though my point about assassins is a good take away, too."  
  
The blush was there, visibly creeping upward over Inarleth's cheekbones only for a moment before he suddenly whipped his face to the side, breaking his stare and using the opaque blackness of his dampened hair to hide the left portion of his glower.  
  
"I'll also take away that the qun must not teach its people anything about tact or maturity. I do well to have what privacy I can with people who are constantly at my back. I'm just here to bathe as of now, sorry to disappoint you. As for 'inspiration', I have no idea what you're talking about."  
  
"Hey now, I never said anything was wrong with you touching yourself, boss. That's one thing the qun encourages."  
  
The inquisitor closed his eyes and furrowed his brow. Were they really having this conversation? In a river, of all places? Two shirtless men--one by way of hygiene and the other by way of choice--discussing such vulgar topics out in the open, with only just enough distance between themselves and their camp to be sure nobody could overhear...  
  
  
For Inarleth, the scene brought back memories.  
  
"Anyways, what I meant, boss, was that your attitude around Dorian isn't exactly subtle. Discretion seems to be something you both value, so you might want to consider fixing that."  
  
The elf tightened his jaw. Just how had he been caught? In what way was he _not_ subtle?! He had shown Dorian nothing but the same blunt and indifferent temperament he had shown Cassandra, Cullen, Leliana...Even Varric! And Varric had chest hair that Inarleth found equally as distracting as Dorian's upper lip!  
  
When he had gone from prisoner to pioneer at Haven, he had shown almost no courtesy to any of his advisors or comrades. When the Seeker who once wanted him dead warmed to him enough to express concern about the pain from the mark on his hand, Inarleth had brushed her aside with little more than a grunt. He had never cared for one figure at the war table or on the battle field. Never entertained their curious questions about his views or his past, never posed any questions to them, and, for the first few weeks, hardly bothered himself to remember their names. This inquisition was a business to him--a mission. It was not a family.  
  
The only time he'd been anything less than frigid was when he told that same seeker--Lady Cassandra--of his faith in the Maker and how he had chosen Andraste over the Elvhen gods. The resulting conversation had been short enough for him to bear, and the devout warrior did not bother him as much as others had.  
  
What had been so different in Inarleth interactions with Dorian for Bull to have seen through his bitter words?  
  
He felt as though one of the river stones had been dropped into his empty stomach. Bull's usage of the word _discretion_ had been intentional.  The oxman had pestered the Tevinter mage about their... _exploits_ \--about how Dorian continued to leave his smallclothes in the qunari's quarters. About how much The Iron Bull loved to watch the object of Inarleth's affection squirm underneath him--so loudly that the entire party would recoil in shock.

 _Discretion._ Dorian had always begged the towering dragonoid for more discretion regarding their intimacy. Inarleth had wished for it, too, only because the thought of the two together plunged a dagger-like sensation deep into his breast...  
  
...And another sensation in a different region of his body that he so-often failed to deny.  
  
Was that what this shaming was for? Was The Iron Bull being territorial about his lover? Was Inarleth being served a warning?  
  
He would still try to deny it.  
  
"Alright, so, you've completely lost me. I'm sorry if something I did made you think there's something between Dorian and I, but there isn't. I'll give you two your space in the future if you leave me to have mine. _Now._ "  
  
Bull's eyes gleaned with amusement and he chuckled darkly under his breath. "Whoa there, boss. I agree that we're _definitely_ not on the same page right now. Look, I'm being straight--", he paused to correct himself, "er, _phrasing,_ sorry--I'm being _honest_ with you right now. Do me a favour and be honest, okay? This is just between you and me."  
  
He took a step toward the Inquisitor who still stood calf-deep in the river, and the approach made the elf tighten his grip on his bow out of habit.  
  
" _Easy,_ boss, geeze! Look, I'm unarmed. I'm just _talking_ to you. I'm not here to threaten you. I don't mind if you have a thing for the 'vint, too. Can't blame you, in fact."  
  
Inarleth dropped his bow, opened his eyes, and sighed once more.  
  
"Sorry, just instinct. I appreciate this and all, but I think you've said enough. I _really_ don't want to talk about this."  
  
"Ah, so those big ears of your really could give you a fighting chance against assassins. Nice. But I'm not done, and you're going to have to listen to me a bit longer. I think you still have the wrong idea."  
  
"Bull, for fuck's sake, _please_ go--"  
  
"No. I've already said you have to listen to me, so you're going to listen. The qun couldn't give a rat's ass about sexual conduct and I _really_ don't get why you people are so uptight about it. What I'm saying is, I know there's a frustrated, exhausted, man underneath all the ice your tongue likes to spit out. Under the qun, people _do_ something about pent-up stress. You're working yourself up about Dorian when you don't have to. I just wanted to say you should join us sometime. I hear your bed's pretty big. What do you say?"  
  
Inarleth felt his face grow scarlet. Suddenly, a million different images and ideas were racing around in his mind. He had _not_ been expecting _that._  
  
He hated himself for considering the offer for a fraction of a moment. He hated the sudden heat he was experiencing south of his abdomen. He hated all the emotions that were swelling in his core, how much _desire_ he had to just give into them.  
  
He hated Bull for bringing them on.  
  
With quick movements of his wrists and a swift wisp of water sent flying with the abrupt movement of his hair, Inarleth spun back to face the qunari, raising his chin, an arrow ready within the string of his bow.  
  
"I say _go away._ Right. Fucking. Now. Bull."

  
\---  


The rest of the day went by in a whirlwind. He couldn't look at Bull, couldn't look at Dorian, and with only Solas left for company, the inquisitor was left staring at his feet. Everything he did felt structured and automatic. He closed rifts, set up a new camp in another region of the Hinterlands, and hunted ram for a stew he could not bring himself to eat. A requisition officer approached him as he sat tending the fire and only then did he realize that the sun had begun to set, though it still felt to him that he was back at that river, the sun barely showing itself in the sky.  
  
"Ser?" The officer said, "I have something for you."  
  
"What is it?"  
  
"Dispatch for you. The advisors at Skyhold have received a reply from your fam--I mean, Clan Lavellan, your worship. Josephine notes that they no longer believe you are being held against your will, but they have an urgent situation that needs response. Something about bandits. The generals did not want to move forward without your contribution. They sent reports detailing what is being requested and each piece of advice for how to proceed. If you read them over and get back to our courier by noon tomorrow, they can--"  
  
Inarleth tossed the documents into the fire.  
  
"Tell Josephine to proceed however she sees fit. She'll know someone who knows someone who can deal with bandits."  
  
"Ser! I really must insist!--"  
  
"They wanted my contribution and they have it well before noon. Please, leave me be."  
  
"I...At once, ser. I'll debrief the courier."  
  
Alone once more, the inquisitor tended the flame using an iron rod found laying about their campsite. How fitting, Clan Lavellan competing for his attention along with a prospect that they would loathe if they knew it existed. As sparks rose into the stars with a distinctive crackle, he made out the silhouette of Dorian crawling into Bull's tent. With a sharp intake of smoky air, he turned his cheek in the opposite direction, uncrossed his legs, and strode quickly toward his own resting place for the night, though he knew he would get no sleep.  
  
"Maker's breath..."


	3. III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The naughtiness that the tags in this fic promised you is delivered!
> 
> ...In a less-than-ideal way.

* * *

  
  
There Dorian's plump ass was, spread and ready for the taking. The entrance of the tent had no guard--save a pile of discarded clothing--but Inarleth had no cares about being seen by any solider passing by. True, the only individual whose commentary would matter was Solas', as he slept next-door, but neither the magister nor the elf concerned themselves with the words of an unwashed apostate. This was _Dorian--_ his skin, once merely tawny had turned into wetted copper through moonlight and a feverish quantity of bodily secretions. This sweltering beckoned the flesh of both men to meet and then fuse together in a sultry dishevelment, but its call was still not as desperate as the pleas of the mage himself who cried out, begging for the inquisitor, his superior, to ravish him by his presented hole and fill him to spilling.  
  
"Andraste have mercy, don't make me ask again," He groaned toward the rear of the tent while giving Inarleth a beautiful display of his own rear, "Do I have to call you Knife-Ear if I want you to please me? Is that it?"  
  
The "Knife-Ear" himself only released a deep chuckle that reverberated in his chest down to his gut. This made him all-too-aware of how debilitatingly hard his own erection was. He winced as he forced himself to deny Dorian's pleas for awhile longer. Slowly, softly, he raised both hands and brought the tips of his fingers down upon Dorian's upper-thighs so lightly that he barely felt even the tendrils of his skin as they grazed the fine barrier that separated air from object.  
  
This slight sensation drove Dorian mad.  
  
He threw back his head, panting, but still managing to curse almost breathlessly in tevene. The fingers traveled from his thighs to his glistening ass, touching him with more and more pressure until they stopped in the middle of each abundant cheek and transitioned into greedy hands that grasped each one in a swift and merciless movement. Holding Dorian between two tight and unyielding fistfulls, the Inquisition smirked, forced the two areas apart, and stooped his face so that he spoke with his hot, hungry breath directly on the back of the 'Vint's neck.  
  
"I suppose so, Ser Pavus, but I'd be a terrible Knife-Ear if I served you quickly and not completely."  
  
He then lowered himself to Dorian's wanting hole and traced it with a teasing tempo.  
  
"Don't worry though, I'll be sure to serve you to the best of my abilities."  
  
With that, he substituted his seductive handiwork for the work of a tongue and began exploring his Tevinter "master" by way of taste. He could no longer hide how much his own desires were desperate for satisfaction as he moaned and moved himself closer to Dorian with every taunting lick. In and out, Inarleth would go from deeply lapping at his lover's insides to circling his rim with flicks of his tongue as faint as he could manage in his own lusting state. He would sweep Dorian's entire crevice at intervals, stopping at the highest point to feel the hairs on his lower back with his mouth and, at the lowest point, to bend inward and kiss his reddened, hanging jewels. He stopped once to turn the Magister's son onto his back, wanting to look into his eyes as he was made to writhe in tortuous pleasure. When he did, he was taken aback by how full, thick, and firm Dorian's member stood for him, and the moment he let his guard down, he was taken advantage of.  
  
"Ser Pavus" rose like a cat in pounce, pushing a hand onto the elf's exposed chest and pinning him down.  
  
"My turn," he purred before grasping Inquisitor Lavellan's hard cock in one hand and milking him with vicious, rapid strokes.   
  
Inarleth gasped, his hips involuntarily raising themselves ever-so-slightly at the touch of his erection.  
  
"Dorian!" he cried between clenched teeth, "Slow!--"  
  
"--Down?" The mage inquired, grinning with pride. "Not very likely."  
  
His pace went even faster, his grin both beautiful and evil, spurred on by the pre-fluids the inquisitor could not contain for his life.  
  
Every attempt Inarleth made to rise, whether a lift of his neck or his chest, out of pleasure or will to escape, Dorian pushed back with twice the force. Every attempt Inarleth made to protest the intense waves of impending orgasm that washed over him, whether a groan or a yell, came out breathless and weak. He could feel himself twitching and he growled, tossing his head from side to side. He was barely resisting his urges to meet Dorian's pumping hand to his own and regain control. Just as he was about to reach the point where the euphoria would become greater than his struggling, Dorian stopped.  
  
"Ah--!" He furrowed his brow, collapsed back into the bedroll, and began to whisper between flustered bouts of panting, "I...I..."

  
But Dorian wasn't done yet. He gave the Inquisitor not two moments of rest before he held him down once more, this time, with his own weight pressing against the pair of sculpted elven legs. Without warning, his hand took Inarleth's throbbing cock at its base and his mouth enveloped the rest. Inarleth made two white-knuckled fists and tried to get air, frantic as though he had been underwater his entire life, and the feeling of Dorian's lips meeting his erection with enduring suction had caused him to resurface.  
  
"Fuck!" He swore in shemlen-speak as if he had been speaking it his entire life. "Oh, mak...Oh, fuck!"  
  
Everything was slower now. Dorian's tongue was precise and careful as he tasted Inarleth's lower head, flicking and playing with the underside and overside of his shaft. He pumped with varying grips and speeds now, and just when Inarleth would feel grounded enough to open his eyes and appreciate the full view of Dorian's cheeks expanded to hold him inside, Dorian would look back up at him, put on that devilish grin, drowning him with an attention so intense it would cause Inarelth's face to tilt toward the tent's fabric ceiling, his hips would rock and quiver, and he could not look down for fear of seeing that powerful expression again.  
  
His senses were overloaded. It was too much. He couldn't hold back much longer. Out of instinct, he wanted to stroke the hairline that spanned from Dorian's navel to his own cock, but the positioning of Dorian's legs made it so that Inarleth's hands were left to stroke and and grasp the hair upon Dorian's head. This inspired a moan of pleasure from the 'Vint, who surprised the inquisitor by scraping his shaft with a touch of teeth even softer than Inarleth's original finger-strokes of his thighs had been.  
  
The elf thrusted himself deeper into Dorian's mouth in reaction, pelvis bucking upward as he let out a primal roar, praising the mage's name.  
  
He looked down to see Dorian still slightly grinning against his cock, chest even more dampened with sweat than his ass had been, hair musty and unkempt. Inarleth put both hands on the back of his skull and urged the mage to take him deeper, to which he obliged without so much as blinking. Inarleth began to thrust with purpose now, wanting to merge himself as deeply as possible into Dorian, wanting to feel the moist chasms in his throat, wanting to--  
  
Why did the air around them suddenly feel hot-to-the-touch?  
  
\--He didn't care. He kept going, harder, faster, so violently it felt as though he make break the man's perfect skull. His hands moved from his hair back down to his ass and he tried to get one last brimming palmful before he--  
  
His core began to burn with heat, something in his abdomen began to writhe with an intensity, and he could feel his testicles begin to tingle with anticipation.  
  
Why did the heat come before the anticipation, and why could he also feel the warmth at the backs of his legs?  
  
"I'm going to--"  
  
The man on top of him hummed darkly before making a thrust of his own, letting Inarleth's cock collide with the back of his throat and moving his tongue up to excite the sensitive areas in its reach.  
  
Inarleth felt himself release with a great force, Dorian's smiling lips containing his spasms as he drank his fluid like wine. There was nothing but adoration in the man's eyes as he thirsted for every drop...But he wasn't looking at the inquisitor. He was looking at something beyond the inquisitor's shoulder.  
  
The elf turned his neck to see what was behind him and was greeted by a familiar voice.  
  
"Good, now the _real_ fun can begin. Thanks for getting him worked up for me... _Boss._ "

 

\---

  
  
Inarleth's eyes sprung open with a start. He took a moment to register where he was--not in Dorian's tent, but in his own, which had become significantly more tidy after the night Dorian had given him the quilt. Then he registered something _else_.  
  
His smallclothes felt uncomfortably cool and they seemed to be pasted to his skin. The stickiness alone made him feel overwhelming filthy and he moved his arm to toss off the blanket so he could examin--  
  
The quilt was dampened, too. Slightly.  As the inquisitor shifted underneath it, he felt a fluid quantity in his trousers, felt how they clung to his rear, and it dawned on him that the wetness hadn't come from an external source at all.  
  
_Oh, t_ _his cannot be happening._  
  
But It was. He was getting was he deserved--the night before, he had lain awake for so long, he had succumbed to a rather primal urge. A pile of fabrics and textiles looted for Skyhold had sat unattended, off to the side of the encampment, he knew that nobody would miss a single scrap of silk. Bull had teased Dorian quite enough in public regarding his "silky" underthings, and Inarleth had gone back to his bunk, taken that piece of cloth underneath the drawstring of his own underthings, closed his eyes and tried to imagine that it was _his_ quarters that Dorian had been leaving his clothing, that perhaps, some nights, it was _he_ who was feeling Dorian through the silky coverings using _his_ \--  
  
But no, he had thrown the scrap of cloth to the corner in disgust, barely having stroked with it three times, but still feeling at those he had defiled it enough.  
  
He had been like that for hours, hot, unfinished, and aching, before sleep finally took him.  
  
Clearly, his body had its own relief upon himself as he dreamt, and now he was dealing with the aftermath of the need he had neglected.  
  
If only his body would take it upon itself to relieve him of the shame and disgust involved with that.  
  
He realized, crawling in much discomfort to the entrance, that the position of the sun was no different than it usually was when he awoke. Maybe, if he moved quickly, he could wash himself and the quilt before anyone else was roused by the light.  
  
He would just have to find a _different_ lake to do it in, this time.

* * *

"Hey, Boss! I see you washed more than your face today! Solas saved you some breakfast. Eat up so we can move out. I think we should travel Northwest from here so we can--"  
  
How was Bull so nonchalant about _everything?!_ If that ox had one talent, it was pretending that certain things never happened. Inarleth had pointed an arrow at him, _he_ had suggested a threesome, and now The Iron Bull was going to joke about his wet hair like it meant nothing?"  
  
"Hold on a second, what were you doing with the quilt? Why is it soaking wet?" Dorian spoke from his seat upon the edge of the grey man's lap. Inarleth hadn't even registered what he'd asked before he turned red, and when he did process it, it only deepened his skin tone. He couldn't look anywhere but at his bare feet, at the blades of grass that peeked up between his toes from where he stood.  
  
"We can't go northwest. That's dragon territory, so a merchant tells me. We'll have to route around camp southeast-ward to avoid her. As for the quilt, I took it with me to bathe so I might not please any peeping toms." The Iron Bull tossed his head back and laughed heartily. " _Some_ of us have to show some common decency." Inarleth snapped at him.  
  
"Okay, okay, fine. But seriously, Boss, did you say _DRAGON?_ If we're near dragon territory, we have _got_ to go northwest! I have to see that! Come on, _please!"_  
  
Knowing the elf all too well, Bull produced a bowl containing an eggy mixture with various meats and added two slices of bread to the meal before extending it Inarleth's way.  
  
"I'm not hungry." he hissed in response, spun on his heels, and moved in the direction of his tent. As he walked, he heard Dorian say,  
  
"Bah, the child's just cranky again. I'm sure you'll get your dragon sooner or later, you oaf. We just have the pressing matters of rifts to close. Maybe, if you're good with the demons, I'll give you my own reward."  
  
Inarleth's stomach churned.  
  
Solas, who had been meditating near the the rocks on the outskirts of camp, approached the inquisitor and bid him good morning.  
  
"I noticed that you dispatched Josephine to deal with some bandits harassing your people," he remarked, "that is an interesting choice. May I ask, why our diplomat and not the commander?"  
  
Grateful for a change of topic, Inarleth treated the apostate in a manner that was _almost_ friendly. "We need to spare our troops for the missions of either the most demanding military force or the greatest need for secrecy." He said, "bandits call for neither. Josephine can call a favour from the troops of a high-ranking house without having them learn about important inquisition affairs, and even their weakest forces should be able to drive off any bandits, if they're anything like the weak sellswords I was used to encountering with my clan."  
  
"Ah, I see. Not a bad rationale. It is certainly one of a prudent leader. Tell me, however, if you were used to encountering weak sellswords and successfully defeating them with your clan, does it not worry you that these man might be stronger? Your clan has not been able to vanquish them on their own. Would you not arm them with the best protection available if that were the case?"  
  
"It sounds like you disapprove of my choice," Inarleth raised a brow.  
  
"I apologize. I am merely curious," The elf maintained his intellectual tone. "It would appear difficult for any man to be so rational in a situation that threatens the well being of those he loves. I, for example, have acted in many irrational ways at times in order to preserve the things I care for. I find it very promising for the inquisition to have such a reasonable leader, but I do wonder if the benefit to your clan will be the same."  
  
"I suppose I wonder that, too," mused Inarleth, "but you're right. I'd choose differently if I was acting for the sake of something I cared about. Fortunately, I haven't had answer any problems like that yet."  
  
He shot a glance back at Dorian, laughing on Bull's knee.  
  
"Not one."


	4. IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A quick chapter (featuring a dragon fight!) To move character development along.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry, everyone. I've had family issues involving a loved one suffering from a stroke and school issues that have made my life hell. I decided to take a break from all my stress and think about Dragon Age again. I hope I haven't lost you all.

**“Bull.”**  
  
              “Boss.”  
  
              There was a palpable tension in the air as the inquisitor addressed his meddlesome Qunari companion later that morning. However, it could only be felt by one party for the dragon-man in question took everything in jest and seemingly nothing in chagrin.  
  
  
“Uh, you have something to say or was that it?”  
  
The Iron Bull was eyeing Inarelth at half-capacity, but his suspicion was translated in full.  
  
“I—No. I mean, yes. I mean— _Maker!_ —that wasn’t it.”  
  
“Okay…I’m not busy. What’s up? You wanna take me and Dorian up on that offer?”  
  
“No! Damn it, Bull, that _never_ happened, okay?!”  
  
“Hey, don’t blame me, Boss. I’m no mind reader. You’re the one who started talking to me without letting me know the conversation topic!”  
  
“ _AGH._ Talking to you is like!—Nevermind! I just wanted to know if you were confident we could take on that dragon with our current equipment! You seemed enthusiastic so I assumed you’d know a bit about what kind of fight we could expect from the beast, but clearly you—“  
  
“Did you just say dragon?! You mean, you’re reconsidering travelling north?! Hell yeah! Oh boss, man, I knew you weren’t just some mopey elf with a stick up your ass! You won’t regret this, I swear on my own two fucking horns!”  
  
“I..Well, wow. Okay. I take it that means you’re confident it _won’t_ kill us all if we face it? It’s not a risk to take lightly. If it damages my hand and muddles the mark, the entire world could remain full of rifts forever.”  
  
“Uh, I mean, yeah, that’s pretty serious and all…” Bull cleared his throat and calmed his voice, “but boss! I’ll stand in front of you if I have to! With me on your team, that dragon doesn’t stand a damn chance! What d’ya say?!”

  
\---

  
              And so, Inarleth, Solas, Bull, and Dorian found themselves facing the Ferelden Frostback. The latter man stood behind his leader. He whispered,  
  
“So, Inquisitor. I do recall you saying that we would travel southeast to avoid this foe, even when my excitable Bull over there offered you an extra portion of breakfeast. I’ve seen you wolf down food before. What else did he offer you to bring on this change of heart, hm?”  
  
              Inarleth had found himself exceptionally nervous and distressed around Dorian ever since he had laid eyes upon the man. To answer a direct question from him—one that involved his lover, who Inarleth was growing increasingly envious of, nonetheless—filled him with fear. Fear, unfortunately, was what provoked Inarleth to turn cold and aloof.  
  
“I’ve seen how close you are with him. Wouldn’t you be the first to know whether or not he bribed me? Ask him yourself.”  
  
              The Qunari, either completely oblivious or completely indifferent toward the fact that he had become the topic of some heated gossip, cried back toward the elf,  
  
“Boss, I want you to know: you're the best!” and charged toward the winged creature that threatened his comrades. Inarleth plucked an arrow from his quiver in a quick, fluid motion before firing at the ankles of their assailant. Dorian followed suit and, off on his own, Solas observed everything with a narrowed gaze and swiftly cast a protective spell over those who engaged the dragon.  
  
“Well, whatever it was,” Dorian remarked, “the deal seems to have made him quite happy. I just wanted to thank you for that. He may seem at ease, but I can tell this inquisition has been taking a toll on him.”  
  
              That was enough to interfere with Inarleth’s aim. His next shot landed uselessly between the talons of the Frostback.  
  
“He— _what?”_ The Inquisitor asked, then shook himself away from a position of empathy. “I mean, I suppose it would have. This combat has us all stressed. Don’t thank me if risking our lives is making him happy. I only changed my mind because this route was faster.”  
  
              Dorian rolled his eyes—a gesture visible from Inarleth’s peripheral vision.

“Ah, right then. I forgot—the inquisitor could _never_ show _compassion_ for the people who have chosen to fight alongside him out of the goodness of their hearts. How silly of me! He’s just a statuesque warrior with no feelings, of course. He doesn’t need _my_ lowly gratitude or company. I’m just here to lay down my life if it means sparing the good Herald of Andraste who can repair the bloody sky! I’ll get right back to that!”  
  
               Inarleth let loose a haphazard fury of arrows in the beats of silence which followed, landing anywhere from the dragon’s chest to its nostrils.  
  
               “ _Delltash!”_ He cursed in his native tongue and lowered his bow, turning aggressively to face the human who played with his heart. “Fine, I did it for myself! Are _you_ happy now?! Are you _both_ happy?! Are you happy _together_?! I can’t keep my head straight either. Everyone wants something from me—refugees, nobles, my companions, even my own clan!—They’re all asking for favours because I have some… _thing_ on my damn hand that I never asked for! Did I want to make Bull happy? Yes, but only so it would take one less thing off my plate, not for his sake! Getting to empty my stress on killing something is just a bonus. If you want something from me, too, Flat-Ear, wait until this thing is bloodied and not breathing to ask me. Is that a better answer?!”  
  
“ _Fasta vass,_ so you’re _not_ made of stone! Was that so difficult?! I like honest men, Inquisitor, and I won’t be serving you for very long if you equivocate and hide like a magister. Right now, though, if you need to kill something to clear your head, I’m here. Don’t make me regret it.”  
  
  
He grinned, nodded, and, for the first time since he woke up in Haven, Inarleth Lavellan…Apologized.  
  
              Later, when the beast was felled, Dorian put a hand on his shoulder as together, they observed a giddy Iron Bull climbing its corpse.  
  
“Haha!” He bellowed, “Today is a good day! Today is a _very_ good day!”  
  
              In turn, Dorian smiled. “Thank you, Inquisitor. For this, and for all the weight you’re bearing on your shoulders. I’ll do what I can to manage my own affairs and not cause you extra work, but…Oh, just thank you. For what you’ve already done for me, that is.”


	5. V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And so the romance between a barbarian, a blue-blood, and a bohemian-like nomad finally begins to blossom.

* * *

 

 

         The bard—Maryden, was it?—strummed soft chords, producing a melody which mingled in something to the effect of an unlikely harmony with the boisterous susurrus of voices occupying The Herald’s Rest that evening. The “herald” himself—the elf, Inarleth, the Inquisitor—had no concern for the ambiance aspect of the tavern experience he was about to receive. He only cared if the alcohol content was high and the disruptions were few. Unfortunately, the courier following at his heels was apt to provide him with at least one.

“Ser!” he cried, “That wasn’t the whole of the report! Please, Ser! At the very least, don’t walk away before giving me _some_ reply for Miss Montilyet. She’ll no doubt be frustrated if I return and tell her that you—“

“I understand the whole of the matter in essence, thank you,” Inarleth snapped in a sharp growl, “and if you need a reply so badly, tell _‘Miss Montilyet’_ that she should aim to make her future messages to me more open to _summary._ Will that be all? I’d like to be left in peace now.”

The courier, young-faced and bumbling, was making a pitiful effort at concealing the tremble in his lower lip. His eyes, wide with worry, searched the boarded flooring at his feet as if he had just dropped a precious heirloom. Clearly, there _was_ something else he wished to mention, but he was unsure as to whether doing so would be wise. The sight alone provoked disdain and contempt in the short-tempered leader of the inquisition. The scoff that escaped his pursed lips made that very clear.

“Boy, if you really have to waste my time further, waste as little of it as possible. Speak!”

“I…It’s just…Serah Herald…This news…Um…”

              Inarleth cut his words off with a sigh then closed his eyes and began to massage his own temples. “You have one more minute,” he said.  
  
“I-I just wanted to know-!” The young man blurted, scanning the tavern scape from side to side as he spoke, “-whether y-you’re alright, messere…”  
  
              Finally, the man-child made eye-contact. His expression was intense with sincerity and caution all in one. Inarleth sprung his lids open at once and met that sappy stare in a long, drawn-out silence which lasted until some of the surrounding patrons began to take note of the scene.  
  
“I expect you to carry my reply to Josephine at once, without delay.” Came his reply. “Goodnight, boy.”  
  
              The courier paused only for a moment, searching first Inarleth’s face and then, once again, the floor, before he swallowed, nodded, and hurriedly took his leave.  
  
_If we’re to be an inquisition taken seriously, we ought to have more competent agents._  
  
              The now-scowling Dalish man, relieved of his annoying company, took barely a half-dozen steps forward and was addressed once more. This time, thankfully, by a much finer specimen.

“Inquisitor!” Dorian called, “over here! Take a seat!” He was perched beside (rather than atop, for a change) The Iron Bull, who was roaring with laughter despite appearing perfectly sober.  
  
“Yeahhhh! Sit! Have a drink!” the ox-man boomed, thumping a heavy fist against the bar-top. This caused the dainty glass of red wine sitting in front of his mage companion to jump. Inarleth noticed a serving girl reach for a broom instinctively. When nothing happened, she shuddered and took a deep breath, anxiously wringing her hands. He contemplated saying a short prayer for her in case her shift had only just started, but had no time to do so. Bull’s insistent and loud invitations were drawing attention and, somehow, the inquisitor knew that they would only stop if he joined the pair for the drink they had offered him.  
  
              He approached the stool to Dorian’s left and peered over Bull’s shoulder.

“What exactly am I supposed to be drinking?”  
  
              The tankard that was dwarfed by the qunari’s enormous grasp contained a liquid unlike any Inarleth had ever seen. Or smelled…Even from a distance.  
  
              _Maker’s breath!  
_  
“ _Maraas-lok_.” Was all Bull gave in way of explanation.  
  
              A bar-tender set a flagon of equal size in front of the empty seat nearest the elf and the horned man barely waited for his hand to leave the handle before he began to fill it. Uneasily, Inarleth sat down.  
  
“And _marass-lok_ means…?” He inquired.  
  
“It means ‘drink’!” Bull exclaimed. “To killing a high dragon like warriors of legend!”  
  
              He tried to look at Dorian for guidance, but the mage had already raised his wine glass in anticipation of cheers. With significant hesitation, Inarleth reasoned that he was in need of spirit and thus, in no position to turn down the prospect of something strong enough to sate a giant, one-eyed warrior, and so he met Dorian’s extended drink with a light touch, then Bull’s, with a clank and a slosh. No sooner than the first sip had touched his tongue did the inquisitor regret his choice. The alcohol burned fiercely before even meeting his throat, which gagged in protest before Inarleth had even registered the sensation.

Dorian’s reactionary laughter rivaled even Bull’s in volume. With much choking and sputtering, the first swallow stayed down, however, and so no shame was felt by their new drinking buddy. In fact, that new drinking buddy smiled and laughed alongside them.  
  
              “Damn, Bull, where in the void did you get that?!”

                Dorian laughed even harder. He was struggling to catch his breath.  
               
                The mercenary captain clapped a hand on the elf’s back, bringing on yet another choke, and shrugged.  
  
                  “I know, right? And eh, Par Vollen, the void, same thing. Either way, put some chest on your chest!”

                   He, on the other hand, was able to take a plentiful gulp as if it were water.

                   “The second cup’s easier, just so you know, Boss: most of the nerves in your throat are dead after the first one.”  
  
              Dorian, getting his own drink replenished by the bartender, spoke what could have been taken as insult if it weren’t for the dripping affection in his voice.  
  
              “Yes, _chest_ , but no shirt. Being this savage by nature is probably what allowed this brute to deliver that final blow to the dragon in the first place.”  
  
              Struck suddenly with envy, Inarleth took that second drink in favour of contributing to _that_ conversation topic. Contrary to Bull’s claim, it was exponentially more tough to stomach than the first. He felt his face flush and he fought the urge to spew the foreign liquid across the counter. When he succeeded in introducing the brew to his system, his companions cheered and the one nearest to him began to rub his shoulders. Had the scars on his shoulders always glistened in the light like that?  
  
              “Damn! That dragon!” He grunted longingly. “That little gurgle before it spat fire? And that roar! Ugh, what I wouldn’t give to roar like that!”  
  
              “Oh, I’ve heard you roar better,” Dorian mused. Inarleth drank and choked again. The Bull continued without noticing.  
  
              “The way the ground shook when it landed…The smell of fires burning….Ah, _taarisdath-an halasaam_ ”  
  
“             _Agh—A-_ andraste have mercy—B-b-Bul— _shit_ —“  
  
              They were laughing again. But they weren't the ones trying to talk through a burning throat.

              “—Bull! _Erm,_ Bull! That thing you just said. You shouted it during the fight, too. What does it mean?” Inarleth asked.  
  
             “Oh!” cried Bull mirthfully, “closest translation would be: ‘I will bring myself sexual pleasure later, while thinking about this with great respect.”  
  
              “You…shouted _that_ while it was breathing fire at us?!”  
  
               “Hey, qunari hold dragons sacred!” Bull said in his defense. “Well…As much as we hold _anything_ sacred.” He drank again. “ _Atashi_. ‘The glorious ones’. That’s our word for them: _A-TAH-SHEEEEEEEEEEEE!_ ”  
  
              Now it was Inarleth’s turn to laugh. “Why do you think qunari think of dragons that way?”  
  
             “Well, you know how we have horns? We kind of look more…Dragon-y…Than most people, right? Maybe it’s that.”  
  
             “Mmmm…” Inarleth agreed and took another drink. He sputtered less this time and his shoulders were being massaged more thoroughly.

           “But a few Ben-Hassrath have this crazy old theory. See, the Tamassrans control who we mate with. They breed us like your people would breed dogs or horses, right? Well, what if they mixed in some dragon a long time ago?...”  
  
          Dorian slowly took Bull’s hand with increasing interest, and so the qunari man continued.  
  
         “Maybe drinking the blood…Maybe magic…I don’t know. Point is, something in that dragon we killed..It… _spoke_ to me.”  
  
         Inarleth drank. “When you put it like _that,”_ he remarked, “I’m worried I killed one of your gods or something!”  
  
        “Nah. One of _Tevinter’s_ gods, maybe.” Bull responded, moving a hand from Inarleth’s shoulders to Dorian’s. “You guys worship dragons right, Mage? Yeah, kill the shit out of them all you like, Boss.”  
  
              Dorian simply laughed and waved a serving girl over. His partner carried on.  
  
      “You wanna talk about savage? Dragons are the embodiment of raw power. But it’s all uncontrolled…Mindless. _Primal_ ….” He leaned over to whisper that last word in Inarleth’s ear. “So, they need to be destroyed. Taming the wild…Order out of chaos, that kind of thing…Have another drink!”  
  
              Inarleth, grinning like a drunken idiot, drank obediently. His companion's approval was obvious.  
  
              “Nice! To DRAGONS!”  
  
              “To The Iron Bull!”  
  
              “And to his ass-kicking Inquisitor!”  
             

              And The Iron Bull drank, too.  
  


\---

“Okay, what the fuck is going on here?!” The elf had stumbled in to his quarters for the night to find a shirtless duo laying in his bed. For one of them, such a sight was normal, but Dorian’s missing shirt had taken him by surprise. “I left before you two and yet somehow you got back to the main hall before me?!”  
  
“Hey, Boss! I told you this bed was big enough for three! Care to join us now?”  
  
Inarleth couldn’t keep focused on either of their faces. His legs threatened to give out beneath him at any moment. “Last I checked, both of you…You…Had your own beds!”  
  
              Dorian’s face had pinkened noticeably. Somehow, he and Bull had managed to smuggle two bottles—one of wine and the other of the mysterious Par Vollen spirit—out of the Herald’s rest. They drank both of them straight, bringing the necks of their sources directly to their lips and running their hands over each other in great amusement. The mage then said,  
  
              “Perhaps we do, great ‘ _H-Herald_ ’, but we intend to lay here tonight, with or without you!” and collapsed under the arm of his horned beloved, cracking up in the apparent hilarity of his own words.  
  
              “In that case, I…I’ll… _gods, Dorian_ …I’m going t’t-take your place and retire in the library. _On nydha.”_ _  
  
              He turned back toward the door, but was beckoned back by the ben-hassarath who knew him all too well._  
  
“Look, inquisitor, I tried approaching this casually before, but if you insist on making me and the ‘Vint work for this, we will. Honestly, though, you’re just wasting time that could be better spent elsewhere, if you catch my meaning.”  
  
“I shared a drink and killed a dragon with you,” Inarleth stated, “that’s only friendly. Quit…Quit putting _your_ desires in _my_ heart!”  
  
              He had misjudged the origins of Dorian’s bottle. This one was still sealed, containing white wine. Where had he gotten it in such short time? The Tevinter man made no attempt to explain himself and, instead, uncorked the alcohol by applying a magical pressure at its base. “If I didn’t know better,” the noble remarked to the spy, “I’d say that the inquisitor is acting like he’s too good for our company!”  
  
              “I only m-meant…t’imply I have no desire for men such as—“

               “Oh, save it Boss!” Bull interrupted him. “You’ve already made it clear as the Maker’s piss that Dorian makes you hard.”  
  
              The necromancer in question nearly coughed up his recently-taken swig.

              “Is that so, Inquisitor?” He practically purred. “No need to be shy, then! I’m right here…”  
  
              The elf sensed a stinging blush taking over his cheeks. More humiliated than curious, now, his blood began to boil.

             “I can’t believe our big oaf here knew how you felt and never told me!”  
  
             “Enough! I’m leaving. Goodnight!”

              But could he really handle the image of The Iron Bull alone with Dorian…In his own bed?

            “Ah, Boss, don’t be like that. Look, I’m ben-hassarath. I’ve worked with men like you. I know what you need, and I want to give it to you. I know what you want, so I brought it with me. C’mon, now. Give us one night to help clear your head. You won’t regret it.”

Inarleth closed his eyes and moved one trembling hand toward the door knob.  
  
“Let us take care of you, Boss. I know you don’t want to go, and I know _you_ know that, too.”

               He froze, hand suspended in midair. Really, what _was_ the worst thing that could happen if he surrendered control for _one_ night? After what felt like an eternity, Bull’s heavy footsteps made their way across the room. One of his thumbs began rubbing the tension out of the inquisitor’s tense muscles once more while the other passed him the bottle of wine.  
  
              “Stay, Ser Lavellan. There’s no war, no inquisition…Nothing outside this room. Just you, me, _Dorian…”_

               ‘Ser Lavellan’ drank. “I—I’ve never been with a man before…I—“ he stammered, eyes still closed. He could feel himself shaking.  
  
“ _What?!”_ He heard Dorian interject from his territory on the bed, but now both of The Iron Bull’s hands were working their way down his back and to the waistband of his trousers.

               “Ahhh, I thought so.” He cooed softly. “That’s okay. It’ll be okay, Boss. Dorian’s just surprised a man as handsome as you has never indulged before, but I get it. You’re a selfless leader, always have been. Tonight, it’s okay to be selfish. It’s okay to get what you’ve wanted…”  
  
              Bull’s thick fingers slipped beyond the waistband and grabbed Inarleth’s ass, causing the elf to straighten his posture with a start and draw a quick intake of breath. He felt guilty—angry—he groaned in the frustration of temptation, but still, he did not move away.  
               
            “I--No…No, I— _gods!_ “ the Dalish man felt warm, wet lips press against the back of his neck.

               “Don’t say that, Boss. You were doing so good. Try again. Relax. Take another drink. Tell me how you _really_ feel. It won’t leave this room. You can _trust_ us.”

               The strong, massive hand of the qunari began to tug at his wrist. Inarleth could not open his eyes, but he allowed himself to go limp, allowed himself to be led in reverse, and felt his back meet the cushion of his mattress, his shirt being unbuttoned, the same oafish hand moving to pin both of his slender arms under one palm. Dorian took the wine back and chuckled darkly.  
  
              “Good choice. Oh, this _will_ be fun…”

               But Inarleth’s mind was already racing too fast to register the human’s enthusiasm. It was still reeling from the news that the courier had given him hours earlier.

               All of Clan Lavellan had been killed.

              
     Surrounded and slaughtered, like lone high dragons nesting in the Hinterlands.  
  


  
  



	6. VI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Looking for some real smut this time?
> 
> Oh, okay.

  
Well, to say his decision was a difficult one for Inarleth to rationalize would have been an understatement. He was the victim of his own grieving heart and drunken mind, but, in the interest of being perfectly fair, his sober desires would have inevitably lead him to this same situation sooner or later. Despite all he had been given to drink, despite his spinning sight and inner-sayings, there was still something inside of him that needed to fight against his own pleasure. When The Iron Bull went to remove Inarleth's breeches, the elf sloppily kicked a leg in protest, his two hands still pinned under one of Bull's, eyes opening to glare at the qunari in defiance.  
  
"Hey," he muttered, still too embarrassed to sound as truly threatening as he would have liked, "That's too...Show me yours first!"  
  
Dorian, who had crawled downward from his place in the bed to kneel at Inarleth's head, laughed at the flustered virgin.  
  
"Ohh! Fiesty!"  
  
"That really how you want it?" A smirking Bull asked. "Seems like I'm gonna have a bratty one to deal with tonight."  
  
Inarleth scoffed and tried to turn his head away, but Bull released his hands and took his chin between his thumb and fat index finger, forcing Inarleth to stay facing him.  
  
"I did say I was gonna be the one in charge for once, didn't I, Boss? I've got a thing or two to teach you about being a _good_ subordinate."  
  
"Don' forget we brought  _thisss!"_ Dorian slurred. Inarleth wanted to raise his gaze and admire the view of his favored human hovering above him, but Bull kept his perspective locked under a tight two-digit grip as he caught a bundle of rope that Dorian had tossed his way.  
  
"Ah, like I could have forgotten!" Bull hummed and leaned over Inarleth to reward Dorian's innovation with a kiss. The inquisitor closed his eyes and used one now-free hand to push the bare chest of the Iron Bull back. It grew uncomfortably close to the tip of the elf's hooked nose as he lay underneath the lip-locked couple. "See, Boss? Dorian knows how to behave. If you're jealous, you'll have to follow his lead."  
  
"I...What?" Inarleth's anxiety was only mounting. He was lost somewhere near the corner of lust and vulnerability.  
  
"Here, I'll show you," Dorian murmured darkly. He reached across Inarleth's naked shoulders to take his both hands and intertwine their fingers together, an action which was met with no resistance by the elf, and he brought them upward in the same pinned pose before letting go and allowing Bull to tie them together in rope. "You won't be needing those anyhow, _S-ser._ No rifts in here. No _marrrk_ required!"  
  
" And the _other_ things you use your hands for," The Iron Bull added, "well, that's why _we're_ here."  
  
Afraid, but strangely excited now that he could feel Dorian's rapid breathing against his forehead, he nodded into Bull's fingers. The qunari freed his forceful hold on the elf's chin and stroked his neck with the back of his hand. Inarleth shivered.  
  
"That's a good boy...Let's try this again..."  
  
His breeches were tugged at again and this time, Inarleth offered no protest. He swallowed a nervous lump in his throat, but he maintained eye contact, blushing. His teeth were gritted together as if they could form a wall that would keep his more intrusive thoughts at bay.  
  
Had the members of his clan been afraid, too? Tied up, too? Before they were-- __  
  
_Stop it. Be good._  
  
Bull was going teasingly slow. All three men were shirtless, but only Inarleth was being toyed with, clothes around his ankles and a visible erection pushing against the fabric of his underclothing. Dorian was playing with his hair and the elf could practically feel his Cheshire facial expression beaming against him. The qunari stopped to say,  
  
"Ground rules: You will always be safe."  
  
"Wha--" The stop was a bit too abrupt for the inquisitor's liking, but Bull had clearly meant it to be.  
  
"Ah!" He chastised the interruption. "You gotta listen. This is important."  
  
The inquisitor said nothing and fixed The Bull with a challenging stare.  
  
"If you're ever uncomfortable, if you ever want either me or Dorian to stop, you say 'Katoh' and it's over. No questions asked."    
  
"I...Wha..." He repeated his former question, dumbstruck, and wriggled against his bindings in mild discomfort. "I mean...Okay. Whatever. Fine."  
  
"Hmmm...No," Bull mused, "I don't think you understand. We're gonna need to test this."  
  
An inhumanly large hand slipped under the cloth of the inquisitor's only remaining piece of clothing and closed tight around his shaft. Just as fast, Bull moved over his chest and enclosed his mouth over one of his nipples, grazing it with his teeth. Dorian's light, stroking fingers turned to scratching at his neck.  
  
" _Fenedhis_!"  
  
He tried to push Bull off him, but found it too clumsy to maneuver two bound arms while intoxicated.  
  
"Wrong answer. Say it, inquisitor."  
  
The grip around his cock tightened and Bull's mouth went down again, this time biting against the sensitized nipple. Inarleth gasped from the sudden pain, kicked, and writhed under Bull's crushing weight, but it wasn't the response that was being asked of him.  
  
"Say. It."  
  
The aggression went up yet another level and, this time, it didn't take a fraction of a moment for Inarleth to cry out,  
  
"K-katoh! Katoh!"  
  
The pressure went away instantly. Dorian moved and planted a light kiss on his neck, but the Inquisitor was now wide-eyed, incredulous, and staring at The Iron Bull.  
  
" _That's_ the stuff." The qunari grumbled. "Good job, _little brat._ "  
  
Bull removed the elf's smallclothes, no longer bothering to prolong the experience, but the prospect of being newly exposed barely registered to him. Dorian slurred some sort of pun against the usage of the word 'little', but Inarleth didn't even hear it.  
  
"I...I don't know what to say..."  
  
"Hey, don't look at me like that!" Bull laughed. "That was just a demonstration of how I need you to behave when you're not feeling it. You don't have to be afraid of me. Unless...You _want_ to be."  
  
Another smug grin. Inarleth was beginning to enjoy those.  
  
Bull used his palm to bring the elf's erection back to full force and he groaned happily in response.  
  
"Ah, I take it you're good to keep going! That's a _good_ brat. Where's that wine? I think you deserve some."   
  
Inarleth closed his eyes and felt his blush grow deeper. He didn't disagree.  
  
"What do you say we let Dorian have a turn? I think we've neglected him long enough, hmmm?"  
  
With a shaky whisper and a dry throat, the elf said,  
  
"You're the boss, Bull..."  
  
"Tonight, you're damn right I am."


	7. VII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Continuation of where we left off

* * *

  
" **you know,** " Dorian said, having moved so that he was now on the floor between Inarleth's legs, somehow remaining beautifully poise while on his knees, drunk and lusting, "you're the same _allll_ over, inquisitor."  
  


He stared into the elf's emerald eyes, his own sparkling in hunger and happiness, then moved downward to kiss the head of Inarleth's cock, curling his lips around its edges at a diagonal angle, then bobbed down a little lower so that his tongue could flick its wetness in all the right places. Any once-troubled thoughts were erased by that simple motion and, as Dorian continued to tryingly taste him, the inquisitor felt ecstasy rise up and engulf him as if he were floating on his back through a river which, just like the mage, threatened to swallow him at any moment.  
  
 _A river..._  
  
If only his hands weren't bound, he would have loved to relish in the moment--to stroke the jet black head of tevinter-bred hair and never break the eye contact that seemed to have stilled time. But no, Inarleth was bound both by rope and his own hesitant heart. There was no intimacy to be initiated here. It was hot, raw, and carnal.  
  
"... _Allllll talllll..._ Thin... _Lithe_...but mmm, you're _long_."  
  
  
He took a break between kisses and trailed his fingertips daintily across the shaft of his admirer's erection. Bull stood behind Dorian, occasionally rewarding his insides with a forceful, but very much  _needed_   finger whenever he succeeded in making Inarleth groan "loud enough". If Dorian continued talking like _that_ _,_ Inarleth wasn't sure whether The Iron Bull would ever have a chance to fully relieve the man from the pressure and pleasure of his thick knuckles.  
  
Between the unpredictable changes of pace and the torturous shifts between the tightening of his hand, Dorian was ensuring that the inquisitor was always teeming with adrenaline, hands shaking above him, breath fluttering out in uneven rasps, and it was clear that all three men were enjoying just how bothered Inarleth could be rendered by a simple massage. He was melting in to the sheets, biting back moans so passionately he thought his lips might bleed. When they escaped, his cries seemed deep enough to rattle his bones, but he could hardly tell when all his muscles were twitching and shivering.  
  
"That's it!" Bull grunted, clearly enthralled by the scene before him, "let him have--No! Better yet, let the brat _tell_ you what he wants."  
  
  
A spark danced across the 'vint's vision. He propelled himself up by his knees, mindful not to graze the hard dick that practically begged for attention on its own, and greedily sucked on Inarleth's left nipple, their bare stomachs gliding together with sweat. Bull used this as the perfect opportunity to surprise his lover and he lowered himself so that he could bring his own hips to Dorian's backside. As he sank into him, the mage startled and snapped his attention upward. There was a wet, slopping sound as his lips lost the suction they had held beforehand, but ultimately, the distraction was a welcomed one. The purr that gurgled in the back of his throat was proof enough of that.  
  
It only took him a moment to look once again into the face of the so-called "brat" who, throughout that sequence of events, had found himself unable to look away.   
  
" _Aa!-A-_ anyhow, yes. If you want something else, you'll have to tell me, _Inarleth_."  
  
  
Dorian spoke the inquisitor's name in a way that made it sound completely new. It was like a poem, like a prayer...It was something _precious_ now that it had been uttered by that tongue.  
  
 _That masterful tongue!_ Inarleth desperately wanted to answer, but his own tongue seemed to have lost all its knowledge of human language. After a beat of fumbling sounds and panting breaths, all he could muster was,  
  
" _Nuvenan ro--rosa’da’din in ma sule enan’ma..."  
  
_ The Iron Bull, who was now getting into a rhythm that made the mage atop Inarleth jolt in sharp, friction-filled bounces, paused to let back a bewildered laugh. Dorian was polite enough to at least _attempt_ to contain his own.  
  
"Ummmm _no_. I'm afraid your dalish instruction doesn't help anyone." He looked over his shoulder at the qunari and voiced a pouting complaint. "Just like _stopping_ doesn't help me, by the way."  
  
Bull, ever-amused, knew of his own power. He knew that he could make Dorian writhe just as easily as he could make him whine. Too often, he'd had him all to himself. Tonight, sharing him, it was confirmation that the together, the two of them may appear as opposite as two men could come. When those appearances were stripped down to bare skin--when they did  _come_ \--however, the touching between the pair had transformative powers. He was eager to see just how quickly they could transform Inarleth, but wise enough to know that putting good things off often made the pay-off  _so_ much sweeter.  
  
He swiped an aggressive palm across Dorian's ass, reddening it. The impact was so sudden that sparks escaped from beneath the mage's fingertips and onto the elf's skin, causing them both to gasp and grow closer.  
  
"That better?" Bull asked, smirking. "Or do you have more suggestions for me on how to do my job?"  
  
  
He readjusted himself, pumping his own cock in order to regain the hardness that had been lost with laughter, and rammed himself into Dorian after having only lubricated him with a dollop of his own spit. He slid out quickly, then violently buried himself inside Dorian again, and again, and again. All the while, he craned his neck to catch a glimpse of the boss-turned-brat, who was staring at Dorian's contorting face with fascination. The 'vint angled his head down toward the cock that he had previously been tasting, eyes closed and teeth gritted, but taking the pounding as beautifully as always.  
  
"Ask him again," Bull ordered, and just like that, the mage's brown eyes sprung open to look upward once more. Grimacing, yet proud, he obeyed.  
  
" _Inarleth..."_  
    
Chills up his spine again. The elf felt as though he hadn't blinked in a century.  
  
"How do you want me?"  
  
Bull eased up and began running his hands across Dorian's shoulders.  
  
"I...I want..."  
  
 _Why is it so hard to form a sentence?!  
  
_  
"I want _more_!"  
  
  
  


* * *

 

  
  
After that, it hadn't taken long at all for Inarleth to succumb to such overwhelming stimulation. He had hardly been in Dorian's mouth for a few minutes before he had sensed his readiness. Damn the tevinter mage and his lovely tongue, slickly turning shame to awe, licking away resolve, dripping wetness over a pair of perfect, red lips and dipping down into the slit of a throbbing head whenever he came up for air. Inarleth had hissed out a warning that he was close, but Dorian had only beamed up at him with a wry excitement. His cheeks had hollowed as he sucked with a desperate intensity, then pressed a hand down on Inarleth's shaft to steady him as he began to jerk and pulse inside them.   
  
Bliss washed over Inarleth.  It rendered his limbs both limp and rigid. He could feel a pool of heat being relieved from the inside of his abdomen, but he himself felt as if a blanket of whiteness had separated him from his body. The gentle, lapping sensation of Dorian drinking his cum called him back and he opened his eyes to watch.  
  
" _Maker,_ Dorian..."  
  
  
Once quenched to his own satisfaction Dorian allowed Inarleth's cock to fall flaccid from his lips, licking them to ensure no drop escaped his taste.

  
He hummed in a way that sounded... _affectionate_.   
  
It seemed as though he was going to say something, but Bull increased his own speed so that he, too, could reward the 'vint for his success, and instead, he tensed. He moved forward with the next thrust, grabbed Inarleth by the shoulder--but was it for stability or solidarity?--and shuddered.   
  
Whatever he had been about to mention could wait. The elf, now euphoric and still half-gone, was content just to observe his own impending climax. His wrists had been rubbed open by the rope and all the second-hand movement that Bull was inflicting upon him, but he had yet to notice.  
  
Dorian truly was magnificent.  
  



	8. VIII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the morning after and a hungover Inarleth must face reality once more.

* * *

  
From her very first opportunity to have a true talk with Inarleth, Josephine Montilyet had been her unexceptionally soft, sweet self.  
  
"I should like to know if anyone here has treated you unkindly, Herald," She had spoken, expression firm and diplomatic, "...for being an elf."  
  
He had scoffed at her coldly, mistaking her as insincere. He regretted it after coming to know her--maybe regretted the way he had approached all of his companions--but it had been too difficult to break his icy mold once it had been cast. Or...Perhaps too frightening? No. It was just easier to continue living as the man he had made himself out to be with every first impression than to contradict himself and cause suspicion among the spies and warriors who had been scrutinizing his every move since he awoke in Haven. And so, he had brushed Josephine's concerns aside.  
  
"I can deal with a few whispers and sideways looks." His words were patronizing, but she pretended not to notice. A click of her tongue, like she was readying to wet her finger and turn a page, then she sighed,  
  
"I shall speak with the staff regarding such conduct." The disgust in her voice had sounded real, but Inarleth had _chosen_ to dismiss it as more pretense from a political fraud. "If we're to convince the world that Andraste's herald is an elf, the inquisition _must_ give you its utmost support! Stories of wild, Dalish elves have grown even more outrageous as people learn of you."  
  
"The humans telling those tales are the first to take a knife to someone with pointed ears. My clan's defended ourselves against them more times than I can count," he had shrugged dismissively.  
  
"Really?" The innocent voice had a subtle quiver of rage to it. "I...Had no idea. I...Will do what I can to end the slander, Herald. It _may_ help if...I know more about how you and your clan lived."  
  
The subject had been broached carefully enough that Inarleth found it in himself to give her a semi-honest answer.  
  
"Well..." He paused to sigh. There was always the risk of revealing too much to humans. If she tried to help, how would Inarleth be able to trust that she wouldn't simply make things worse? "We were, I suppose, at the mercy of... _everything_. Foul weather, disease, village mobs... _"_ He felt his upper lip curl into a snarl. " _I_ always wanted more from life."  
  
"You found it!" Josephine had mused, "in a spectacular fashion, I might add."  
  
But Inarleth had not smiled.  
  
She shifted in her seat and cleared her throat. "Still...You must still miss your clan?"  
  
"I was getting up at dawn to either fish or hunt for others who!-- _I mean-"_  
  
Josephine had looked up at him, perplexed, but saying nothing. "I just meant...no. Everything was constantly broken, whether it was an aravel or a bone or our relationship with some noble human house that we had hoped to trade with...If I'd stayed, I'd be traveling with that broken clan for the rest of my days. I...wanted my own life."  
  
Josephine had smiled at him sadly.  
  
"If I have learned one thing, it is that our lives are never entirely our own." She had told him, "whether your with them or not, being the clan of the Herald of Andraste will mark them in history."  
  
Inarleth had taken a few quiet moments to glare down at the mark on his own hand before replying,  
  
"The other Dalish still worship the supposed gods of our ancestors. When they hear me called the Herald of Andraste, it may stir up anger."  
  
"The moment of understanding can be painful." She had sympathized with him. "But Cassandra has told me that you believe in the Maker. It is an unusual choice for someone of your origin, but I, as the eye of public will be, am glad for it. I suppose you must also be glad to have the opportunity to embrace such faith now. Your clan will come to understand that you move in different circles, my Lord. They must."  
  
The two of them had exchanged a prolonged look, Josephine's smile turning from pitiful to encouraging, as she offered a hand to him over the edge of her desk.   
  
And rather than thank her, The Herald of Andraste had turned on his heels and walked away.  
  
  
  
  


* * *

  
As Dorian barged into his quarters, spouting words faster than the light from the windowed balcony could cut into Inarleth's eyes, Josephine's name came up again.  
  
The three men had slept together in a most literal sense after their night of the figurative, of course. Contrary to what the all-knowing, half-seeing qunari had insisted upon, the bed hadn't exactly been large enough for the three of them and so he had lain in the middle while the elf and the mage had occupied space half draping their bodies over either side of his massive chest, half nestling underneath each of his powerful arms. It had been so nice to fall asleep like that--pleasured and pleased, arms occasionally reaching across a wide, grey stomach so that their fingers could interlace. It was largely at the drunken Dorian's insistence, but Inarleth found it easy to comply. So much for wanting to remain consistent with his cold, uncaring character.  
  
He had woken up at the crack of dawn when a strappingly healthy Bull, an early-riser by his qun-trained nature, had attempted to slip away. He had tried to lull the inquisitor back to sleep with promises of food, knowing full well that the Dalish man had one terrible weakness, but the throbbing of his head and the churning of his insides had made him moan in favour of a sick bucket, and so Dorian had been roused, too, fortunately a victim of wine rather than a mysterious " _Maraas Lok_ ", and had managed to convince him to rest with an iron pail and a pitcher of water while he and Bull went in search for specialty medicine.  
  
  
He had managed to do that for a few minutes, but it wasn't long before he had resolved to shielding himself from the day underneath the covers.

And it wasn't long before Dorian clamoured back in, rousing him once more.  
  
"--Your clan! And she said she sent a courier to inform you, but she also said that the courier said you hardly listened to him and that he followed you into the tavern to-- _maker's breath!_ The tavern! So when Bull and I invited you over, you _knew_ about?!--"  
  
  
" **SHHHHH!** " Inarleth tossed the away from his face and groaned, looking thrice as pale as usual. "Every sound you're making is driving itself into my skull and piercing my brain...stop..."  
  
Dorian took a deep breath inward, and let it outward with a tone that exuded worry.  
  
"I'm sorry," he whispered, creeping toward the bed so that his footfalls would remain silent. Somehow, even when he did so, his manner of walking was one of elegance and flare. He sat near the headboard, breeches mingling with the same spot he had been laying hours earlier, and filled the empty glass on the nightstand with more water before offering it to Inarleth.  
  
He drank it quickly, then sunk back into his pillow.  
  
"Inquisitor...You knew that Clan Lavellan was...You knew your _family_ had been... _lost_...When we were at the tavern?"  
  
Ah, so he was back to being 'Inquisitor' and 'Boss' again, was he? That was just another sharp, reminding arrow to his heart. For all the grief his hangover was causing him, he was able to remember every detail of the night before. It was a miracle worthy of giving thanks to Andraste herself. Or, at least, it _had_ been. With his formal titles restored to him, it seemed as though that night and the happiness it had shown him both meant nothing now that it was over.  
  
Had he truly been hoping otherwise? He hated himself for being such a fool. He _wanted_ to hate Dorian for the sopping pity that shimmered in his eyes. He could feel them on his skin, chilly and harrowing, but he stared resiliently at his own lap. Dorian waited so patiently, so solemnly, for Inarleth's answer. Inarleth could _never_ hate Dorian.  
  
"Inquisi--?"  
  
"-- _Yes,"_ Inarleth whispered, "Yes...I knew."  
  
"I presume you must care, though! The role of the outcast who bears no love for his countrymen has already been filled in this inquisition!"  
  
Inarleth slumped his shoulders. There it was, that charismatic tongue, trying to apply makeup upon the dark clouds which loomed over the two of them. It only broke Inarleth's heart more to hear him try, and when he finally looked over to face the human, his own face must have conveyed that broken state just as well as speech.  
  
"Oh, I only meant...I..."  
  
Dorian trailed off, then moved a hand to Inarleth's lap. The elf, still naked, having slept in a puddle of his own sweat and having spent the morning getting sick in a pail that was offensively close to their two noses, was so numb that he could not be bothered to feign concern for common decency.  
  
"...I _am_ so extremely sorry," Dorian said and Inarleth merely nodded. "I just...I have to ask...Why didn't you _tell_ us, Inquisitor? We would have waited, we wouldn't have been so pressuring. If you were desperate for a coping mechanism...If you were trying to self-destruct, i-if... _that's_ why you let us--"  
  
Inarleth clasped his own, marked hand over the one that Dorian had placed at his bare thigh.  
  
"No!"  
  
Dorian jolted upright.  
  
"I...No. Dorian, _please_. Please believe me when I say that is _not_ why last night... _happened_. Last night was..."  
  
How could he find the words to describe how it felt as though that one night had taken everything: The breach, the mark, the grim future that Alexius had made haunt him, the assault carried out by the red templars loss of Haven, the meeting of Corypheus--even the damn Ferelden Frostback!--and made it all worthwhile to him? Made _everything_ worth enduring to him?!  
  
_Well, everything except **this.**_  
  
  
"I understand if you don't believe it was, Inquisitor, however, I've seen men form these habits for the wrong--"  
  
"NO!"  
  
He repeated it, loud this time. Loud enough to hurt his own head. He withdrew his hand from Dorian's in order to cradle his temples.  
  
  
"Dorian, this was not just some 'habit'. I went to the tavern to drink, yes, but what happened afterward was, by no understatement, the best thing that has ever. Happened. To. Me. I needed it not just for a high or distraction or--"  
  
He sighed. Dorian was looking at him as he if he were possessed. The two had hardly gotten used to speaking to each other on terms that were warmer than permafrost, and now Inarleth was melting in front of him.  
  
" _Yes_ , I do--or _did_ love my clan. Keeper Deshanna, my sister Fravuna and her chi--"  
  
His stomach clenched violently as he fought back tears.  
  
"Fravuna and her _children..._ "  
  
His voice caught in his throat at the mention of his nieces and he felt a warning that he needed to be sick. The moment his eyes had darted toward the pail, Dorian had moved and grabbed the entirety of the elf's greasy, black length of hair to hold it back from his face, but nothing came up from Inarleth's stomach. He put the pail back down and finally gained a shred of dignity, as well as a twinge of humiliation. He shook himself loose from Dorian's hold with the same aggression that he used to brush away from Dorian's mere accidental touch on the battlefield, and he immediately regretted this. The hurt in Dorian's body language was obvious. Inarleth looked at the wall opposite to his direction.  
  
"I'm sorry, Dorian. You don't have to stay here and listen to me go on like this."  
  
"I didn't mean to bring all this up. I should be the one apologizing."  
  
"Either way, you can go."  
  
Silence.  
  
"But...I don't want to go. Inarleth, I want to _stay_ , if that's alright with you."  
  
He was Inarleth again? But how?! Why had Dorian suddenly revived that honour for him? So many emotions were welling up in his chest that it became impossible to hold them back. His shoulders began to tremble and his cheeks burned from the hot, overflow of tears that began to cascade down his face. Too ashamed to look away from the wall, he tried just nodding to permit the Tevinter-born man to remain in his company. In reality, he wanted nothing more than to sob like a child. To be held the way his sister used to hold him when he truly had been one. To tell Dorian,  
  
_Please don't go._  
  
Another miracle blessed him when Dorian seemed to understand and wordlessly took Inarleth into his arms, laid down, and pulled the covers over them both.  
  
"Dorian, I did love my clan. They just...They didn't seem to know whether they loved me, too. They would have never been okay with me... _lying_ with a man and...I just knew..."  
  
"I understand that. More than you'd guess, actually."  
  
" _Thank you_..."  
  
Dorian drew him closer to his chest and pressed his face against the back of Inarleth's neck. It was mutually understood that all necessary discussion had been addressed. Though Dorian had called him by his true name, the elf was still the inquisitor, and he wondered how long they would be permitted to stay in his chambers before another demon came asking for the ailing Herald of Andraste to strike it down.  
  
"Where is Bull?" Inarleth shook out in a half-whimper, still attempting to stop himself from weeping. "He should have been back by now..."  
  
"Don't you worry about the damned lummox. Last I saw him, he was convincing Cole to keep visitors from disturbing you. He said he planned on demanding an audience with Leliana and all her available agents. He wants to figure out who did this to your people and make them pay, the mindless brute."  
  
There was an affectionate chuckle at the end of that insult, like always, and lying there, naked, grieving, and hallow in the wake of a passionate night and a tragic morning, Inarleth Lavellan discovered that there were still new ways for him to feel deeply and completely touched.


	9. XI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Salt or sugar?
> 
> Which Inarleth is can only be revealed through tasting.

* * *

****  
  
"You're dead, Keeper." Inarleth whispered to the elf who stood in front of him. His face was stony and his gaze far away. He looked more _through_ her than at her, as if willing her wild, ebony hair, wide, tawny eyes, and the Lavellan-light skin which stretched over her thin, bony face beneath faded, viridescent markings meant to honour Sylaise, to reveal itself to be false and fragile glass. It was Deshanna's frame. Every one of Deshanna's blemishes and flaws were present and accounted for.   
  
But it was not Deshanna.  
  
Inarleth's face twisted involuntarily into a sad smile. "I wish you weren't...I wish I had..."  
  
Deshanna's frame steppeed toward him, opening her arms for an embrace, but he shook his head, closed his eyes, and sighed.  
  
"You're dead, Keeper Deshanna."  
  
" _Little Hunter, please,"_ she spoke in their native elvhen, " _do not believe in the lies the flat-eared would feed you. They are poison. They tell you your people are dead so you would forget them and void your heart of their ties."_

No longer able to deny her opacity, Inarleth opened his eyes to fix her with a challenging stare.  
  
" _To my keeper, I was many things,"_ He snarled in the language that was being disgraced by the imposter, " _but never was I 'Little Hunter'"_

She faltered. It was a subtle, sudden sign of defeat, but Inarleth had noticed the millisecond in which her innocent, gentle facade fell to reveal one of anger and frustration, then went back again.  
  
" _Dear boy, you have grown to become such an untrusting man. You have forgotten the prodigy and promise you established in your youth. The people knew you were destined to become a great hunter--as did I. I frequently referred to you as such. Do you truly question the love of your own clan? Are you so poisoned? Come, Little Hunter, let me cleanse your mind and make pure what has been corrupted. Allow me to prove the love you doubt."_  
  
  
Again, she extended her arms, and again, Inarleth backed away.  
  
" _Just as you 'purified' me with this unwanted blood writing the clan forced into my face?! You forget your own poison! You forget the poison in which the people would have had me drown! You are not Deshanna! You insult her memory! She may have never loved me, but she would never deny her own actions! She would never lie and claim to have loved something she hated!"_

_"And I do not lie, Little Hunter!"_ This time, she did not waver. Her performance was becoming more convincing. " _I have had much time to reflect on the clan's treatment of you in your absence. I have decided it has long been time to apologize. Come with us to Arlathan. Come home. We shall find a truth in which both our gods and your Maker smile upon us and you can reunite with the boy that first won your affections. Surely you would rather be with your first love than this human mage who enslaves--"_

Sharply, bitterly, Inarleth switched back to the common tongue of Thedas as he spat, "Keeper Deshanna didn't know about Dorian, you parasitic piece of shit!"  
  
And before the imposter could recoil, Inarleth reached for it, glowing, marked hand colliding aggressively with its fake cheek. He turned the motion into a forcible caress as the mark stripped away its disguise, revealing a man, beautiful, naked, and grinning. The purple skin and glowing eyes left no room for uncertainty: another demon had come to try its luck at winning Inarleth's body. It clicked its long, pointy tongue before using it to lick Inarleth below his ear. He grimaced, disgusted.

"You of all creatures," he told the thing, "have no right to insult Dorian! He is nothing like his countrymen!"  
  
"Whatever," it pouted with a sigh, "I just thought it would be convincing. I had no time to plan, you can't blame me for improvising rather than passing up such a  _delicious_ opportunity, Inquisitor."  
  
"Believe me,  _thing,_ I most definitely can."  
  
Since getting the mark that connected him to the fade, Inarleth's dreams had been plagued by a plethora of greedy demons. His sleep was more often exhausting than it was restful and he secretly wondered if he would soon lose the ability to resist even the attempts as weak and transparent as this.  
  
  
"So you know what I am, big deal," the figment shrugged, "that doesn't mean I can't do anything for you, darling. No more tricks--come with me, knowingly now, and I can have you live in a dream for eternity, immortal like the elves before you. You would live with your clan, alive and accepting like you've always wanted. We can fix the mistake of their deaths together. I'll even give you that boy that you once wanted. How old was he again? Twelve? I can give you that version of him again. You know the young ones really are the best..."  
  
Inarleth spat at it once again. "You know, part of me hopes that I'm wrong about the maker just so I can have the satisfaction of knowing you're going to be trapped beyond the veil, waiting for Fen'Harel to find you, demon."  
  
The thing laughed. "Think me a monster if you must, but don't insult The Dread Wolf with your folklore and limited understanding of his true nature, child."

* * *

  
With a start and a sloshing sound, Inarleth awoke in lukewarm water with his dark hair dampened and pasted to his forehead. It took him a moment, but he remembered that Dorian had left him for some pressing business involving a shipment of books for the library, and had suggested that his grieving friend take a hot bath to soothe him. Apparently it had worked all-too-well. He remembered having been hesitant about calling servants to wait on him. A bath would involve carrying a copper tub to his quarters, heating several jugs of water that could be used for better purposes, and the usage of expensive soaps that were far too luxurious for a man used to bathing in natural springs. Dorian had reminded him that the people in Inarleth's service were very different from slaves. They were children of families who had fled willingly to aid the inquisition, they were orphans, they were men and women too poor to receive educations that would allow them to become messengers, scouts, or scribes, they could be men and women either without the strength or magic a soldier would require, housewives widowed by the fighting who wished to help but knew nothing greater than how to launder clothing, or men and women who were lame--rendered that way through combat or from birth--and could not wield a staff or sword, but knew how to cook or clean. Dorian had remarked that these people, misfits and outcasts, looked to the inquisition as a chance to feel useful, hopeful, as a way to give themselves to a cause greater than common life on Ferelden soil or in Orlesian slums.  
  
They were anything but slaves, and for Inarleth to acknowledge their service, to give them orders...  
  
That, Dorian had said, was a way of changing the world no less important than closing rifts. And Inarleth had agreed. Bathing as humans were accustomed, he had discovered, was actually quite pleasant. The castiles smelled lovely. Before the serving girls had left him in privacy to disrobe, he had curiously examined them and mentioned how their scents complemented each other beautifully. One of the women had blushed, but clearly beamed with pride and confessed that she had taken the liberty of selecting them herself. She claimed to have thought carefully on which perfumes would be best for his body, his hair, and the undersides of his fingernails and had taken one bar for each. Not emasculating, but still prim and proper, she had said in her thick, rural accent. Perhaps, despite her obvious lack of nobility, Inarleth could convince the young lady to befriend Lady Vivienne.  
  
A palm's worth of mint leaves sat perched on the rim of the tub and Inarleth took the liberty to chew them thoughtfully. Dorian had displayed rather profound insight on the difference between serving and slavery. It gave rise to many questions about the Tevinter-born nobleman, but Inarleth could not determine which, if any, among them, would not be offensive to ask.  
  
He also could not determine the time. How long had he been sleeping? He swallowed and emptied the last jug of hot water over his head, careful to do so slowly as to not spill a great amount on the floor, though the perimeter of the vessel had been considerately outlined with thick, warm towelettes so that his naked feet would not have to touch the cool stone when he emerged. Perhaps such a gesture was small and simple, but to Inarleth, it only served to prove that Dorian had been correct. Slavery and servitude differed greatly.  
  
The demon had been wrong about him.

 

\---

"My lord..." Josephine sprung out of her chair upon spying the inquisitor, but he held up a hand to silence her.  
  
The fear on her face was immediately evident and Inarleth felt a painful twinge of guilt for his previous behaviour around her. He should have spoken, should have said _anything_ , but instead he had gestured to her like a dog. Why could he not change?  
  
He could try. Clearing his throat, he stammered, "I...It's...Josephine, it wasn't your fault."  
  
It was possibly the least convincing thing he had ever heard his own lips utter, despite how desperately he meant it. He scowled--Yet another thing that Josephine would no doubt misinterpret--and hurried past her toward the war room, head down and humiliated. She did not stop him.


End file.
